


i belong to the stars and sky, let's forget who we are for one night

by getmean



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Helmet Kissing, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Masturbation, One Night Stands, Vulnerability, Yearning, din: i know i am hot capable and dangerous but i also need to be Held
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:07:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27647939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getmean/pseuds/getmean
Summary: Cobb’s eyes trace over the helmet. Over Din’s face. Curious, probing, thoughtful. Din wonders if that’s what Cobb liked so much about his stolen armour; the freedom to be nothing more than it. People rarely care about the body under the beskar. Though, Din supposes Cobb never wore it like he himself does. There’s no way to explain it, unless someone has been faceless for longer than they’ve had a face.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 83
Kudos: 432





	i belong to the stars and sky, let's forget who we are for one night

**Author's Note:**

> what if din wants to be Wanted and Seen while also not compromising his beliefs? what if he didn't jet off immediately covered in gross dragon guts? what if he went to the post-dragon-slay party that @wolfhalls [dincobb fic ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27582674) subconciously convinced me was canon, and cobb convinced him to stay a night?
> 
> well. it's all here folks. din pounding his fists on his beskar like 'i'm human! i'm human!' and cobb Hearing and Seeing and Perceiving it. brought to you three days after binge-watching the show and falling in mad gay love with din

In the midst of the celebrations, Vanth comes to him. Fire-licked and halfway to drunk, judging by the way his eyes are bright and glazed in his head. The ray-like wrinkles popping up around them as he grins, and says, “Mando, you should stay a while.”

It’s out of the blue; shockingly so. All Din can do is blink at Vanth from behind his visor, searching every inch of the man’s face for any sign of ulterior motive. None comes back. All Din sees by the light the flames throw is open friendliness, and curiosity. Something wicked and playful lurks beneath, but not so far out of sight that Din believes Vanth is trying hard to hide it at all. _What is this?_ he wonders, silently.

Out loud, he says, “I no longer have business here. Now that I know the Mandalorian I seek is false, I have to continue my search.”

Vanth makes a wounded noise, pressing a hand to his chest as if in pain. “False? Mando, I wore that armour well.” 

Someone shouts; music swells. Din says, firmly, “It was not yours to wear.” 

Vanth inclines his head. “Well, when you look at it like that…” The firelight catches in his teeth as he smiles again. “Still, no need to rush off. Bet you’ve seen just about every corner of this galaxy, for about five minutes each time.”

Din glances away, seeking out the child easily; playing with a group of kids. “No,” he says, absently. “I stay longer than five minutes.”

There’s a beat of silence, in which the sounds of revelry flood in, and remind Din of where they are; of what had happened. His aches have aches. And even though he’d cleaned his armour as best he could, he still feels filthy down to his skin from the dragon’s spit. Then Vanth laughs, and Din is tugged away from his discomfort, away from the child and the party, and back to their fire-lit aside. 

“You sure take things seriously,” he says. Din dips his head, wondering at the note of fondness he detects there. 

“Not everything,” he murmurs, and looks again at Vanth, as he turns the offer over. The other man looks relaxed, from more than just the drink in his hand. As if someone has come and lifted a great weight of his shoulders, and now he’s walking around feeling as if he could float. 

_Me,_ Din thinks. _It was me, who lifted that weight._

The firelight catches in Vanth’s eyes, which are locked unerringly on Din’s helmet; so sure and steady that Din has to fight the urge to touch his head, to make sure it’s still in place. Normally people’s gazes slide right off the beskar; repelled by some innate human discomfort when making eye contact with something that has no visible eyes. They stare at the ground, or at Din’s shoulder, or at others in their party. Rarely does anyone lock their eyes on the helmet and hold it there, as if there’s anything but smooth metal to latch onto. 

It’s a novel feeling. One that Din isn’t certain he’s so fond of, even if it does pique his curiosity.

The two men regard each other through the night; the light grainy and flickering, thrown by the fire and little else. Vanth’s hands settle on his hips. Din glances away, finds the child again, and feels every ache in his body reignite as he considers getting back on that speeder, back on his ship, back on the tail of something he half expects never to find. 

“I could use a night to rest,” he allows, and judging by the answering smile on Vanth’s face, he might as well have turned over two-thousand credits to him. “But that’s all,” he adds, and Vanth throws his hands up, looking pleased. “Just a night.”

“Just a night,” the man echoes, the firelight catching in his silver hair and beard as he turns his face towards it. He’s smiling, those ray-like lines seemingly etched into the sunbeaten skin of his face. “Just one night, sure. You’ll see how good Mos Pelgon hospitality can be, my friend.”

 _Why?_ Din thinks. _Why do you care to convince me?_ But Vanth has already moved away, moving as easily through the throng of villagers as a beck-tori through the ocean’s floor. Something silently, sharply dangerous to him. It’s always the ones who throw their weight around the least that hold the most to fear, Din finds. 

Fear, or admire. He thinks he knows well enough towards which he’s leaning. 

———

It’s unspoken that Din will be staying with Vanth. After the party breaks up, and Mos Pelgo sinks into its usual sleepy quiet, Din gathers up the child and he and Vanth walk together through the night. The triplicate moons shine brightly through the darkness; making the sand shine silvery in its light. Their footsteps are near-silent. The only sound is the thump of the stock of Din’s rifle hitting his back as they walk, and the child’s soft coos as it sleeps.

“Stay a little longer than a night,” Vanth says, quietly. 

Din, without hesitation, replies, “No.”

They lapse into silence. _Thump…thump…thump,_ goes Din’s rifle. Thumpthumpthump goes his heart.

His and Vanth’s synchronicity on the battlefield was unmistakeable. It seemed as though all Din had to do was think, and Vanth was there to carry it out, as though they were two parts of some strange whole. Din has never battled alongside another so well matched to him; even Cara, whose aggression outweighs her mindfulness. But Vanth…there’s a coolness there. Something deliberate and calculating, something Din can admit he admires greatly. It’s natural that the feeling would spill over after the dust has settled; the two of them still bruised up and battered; Din still stinking and sticky from the dragon’s belly. No reason to indulge in it. No reason to draw it out past its natural point. Din has a quest and his quest has him. 

“Mos Pelgo has a lot to see,” Vanth says, after a time. A squat, clay building has come into sight; the windows dark, the antennas that bristle on the roof shuddering in the brisk wind beginning to pick up. It sends sand skating across the barren flats, moving it over the surface like water. Din looks to Vanth, hoping his disbelief comes through the helmet. 

“It looks like it.”

Vanth flashes his teeth. “You’d be surprised.”

His home is a small, squat shape rising up from the sand as if rooted there, or as if it had sprung from the ground fully formed. A personal moisture farm sprawls out to the side of it, its vaporator covered over from the elements by an ill-fitting tarp that flaps loudly in the wind as they approach. Otherwise, the surrounding land is bare; as desolate as any place on Tatooine is bound to be. 

“It ain’t much,” Vanth says, as he stands to the side and gestures for Din to cross the threshold. “But it’s a whole lot more than I ever thought I’d have.” 

Din glances to him, once. The pram bobs between them, whirring quietly. He doesn’t know what he expects to see on Vanth’s face when he looks. A lie? A threat? All that stares back is easy, half-drunken bemusement. His hand extends, reaching past Din to press the button to release the door. It slides open with a sleek, metallic noise. Then he gestures, over exaggerated. 

“This means you go first,” he says, slowly. “It’s polite.”

Behind his helmet, Din’s eyes roll. Without another word, he crosses the threshold, and the pram and Vanth both follow. 

Inside is cluttered, cramped; undeniably the home of a single man, and one that spends little time within it. Various machine parts and sheafs of paper litter every available surface; Din spots a picked-apart blaster resting in pieces on the low table that sits parallel to a worn-looking sofa, undeniably his bed for the night. With both him, the pram, and Vanth himself, the room seems shrunk to the head of a pin. Every way that Din shifts, he upsets something from its precarious spot to come clattering down onto the tiled floor. 

“Sorry,” Vanth is saying, trying to shuffle as many things as he can into some drawers he hastily slides open. “Not used to it being anybody but me.”

“We won’t take up much room,” Din says, stepping further into the room as he peers down the shadowy narrow hallway that must lead to Vanth’s bedroom, and the refresher. At the thought of it, Din begins to feel grubby all over again. He glances quickly to Vanth, still tidying, and back down the hall. “Vanth,” he says. 

“Mando.” And then, as an afterthought, he glances up, a frown creasing his brow. “Call me Cobb, please.”

His light eyes look dark in the low light of the room. Din glances away, and says, “Cobb. Could I use your refresher?”

The man’s eyes flick once over him, in such a way that Din once again feels the ridiculous urge to make sure his helmet is still seated firmly over his head. As if Cobb has come up to him and undone every buckle holding Din’s armour to his body, and let it clatter unceremoniously to the ground. 

“Ain’t no showers around here,” he says, shifting away from his now-overstuffed drawers. “Sonic’ll have to do.”

Patiently, Din says, “I would take a dust bath, at this point,” and watches as Cobb’s face splits into a grin.

“Now, I’d like to see that,” he drawls, propping his hip to the cabinet behind him, and crossing his arms over his chest. “Guess the helmet would stay on.”

Din doesn’t respond. Interestingly, neither does Cobb. Together, they let the beat of silence stretch long past uncomfortable, the two of them stood on either side of the small room eyeing each other. Behind his helmet, Din blinks. Cobb stares back, the corner of his mouth twitching with a badly held-back smile.

 _Say something,_ Din thinks, lips moving soundlessly behind his helmet. And then, Just say It. 

But instead, Cobb draws himself up straight and flings out a long arm. “Make yourself at home,” he says, cheerfully. “I won’t disturb you in there. Nothin’ like a sonic after — well.” He raises his eyebrows.

“After getting eaten alive?” Din finishes for him. 

“Exactly that.” His eyes are bright, and pleased. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

The fresher is a tiny, cramped room; barely big enough for Din to manoeuvre his armour off, and the clothes underneath. It leaves him sweating by the time he’s nude; because desert nights may be cold but these dome houses by nature hold the heat of the day. The sonic that follows is even more welcome as a result, and Din lingers in there slightly longer than needs be, letting the ultrasonic waves slough the day from his skin. 

Every time he closes his eyes, the picture of the dragon’s open maw drifts through him. The rows of teeth stretching back to its gullet, the thick loll of its tongue, the wave of stinking humid breath that had penetrated his helmet. Din isn’t sure if he was afraid then, but he feels a stir of something now. His death would have left the child in the care of Cobb. The jury still isn’t out on whether he thinks that’s a wholly good idea or not. 

From down the hallway, he can hear more clattering; Cobb cleaning up more of the mess, perhaps. No chattering from the child, which means that its still asleep. Din rests his helmet to the tiles, ears pricked for any footsteps in the hall; and when none come he quickly slips the helmet from his head and washes his face and hair, scrubbing a hand behind his ears for good measure. The fresh air feels good on his face after the sweaty stuffiness behind the visor, and now that it’s off he can smell something musky and masculine; like leather polish and gunmetal, and male sweat. 

Cobb, presumably. Din settles his helmet back over his face before he can decide whether he likes the smell or not, but finds that once he’s back in the dim safety inside that the smell has followed him. Dug in deep in his sinuses, or perhaps into his hair, into his skin. It makes him think of well-loved leather, worn butter-soft to the touch. And then, the hands below that leather; long and capable, the brown skin crossed through with pale little scars. And then, the arms attached, the torso, the hips, the long legs —

“Done already?” Cobb asks, when Din bursts out of the hallway. His eyebrows are raised; the clutter still abroad. The only thing new on the scene is a bottle of spotchka, and a pair of glasses. One of which is full. Or, full-for-now. Din has obviously interrupted Cobb in his imminent drinking of it. 

Din extends a hand. “Please,” he mutters, “by all accounts.”

Cobb takes the drink in one smooth swallow. “Nightcap,” he says, voice just so slightly roughened by the liquor. “You?”

Stood there in the entryway, armour in his arms, the smell of Cobb invaded into his mind, Din shakes his head. The other man frowns, the whole long line of him twisted up on the couch; ankle propped on his knee. _Made yourself comfortable,_ Din thinks. And then, with a small amount of alarm, _he made himself comfortable._

He’s half-lit; the only source of light a yellow glow coming from over the front door. Beyond it, the winds howl across the nighttime desert, flinging sand up against the windows; the noise a whispering mockery of rain. “Some ‘one night’,” Cobb says, his voice low and deliberate. Then, he unfolds; standing from the couch to cross the room in one smooth motion.

Din knows that if his helmet was off, he would be able to smell him. His sweat. His skin. Gunmetal and leather oil. Din is a big man but Cobb is just so slightly taller; long-legged and rangy where Din is stockier. It means when Cobb comes close, the already small building seems to shrink infinitesimally. 

“I’ve washed, I’m about to rest,” Din says, steadily. “What else is there to do?”

In the smudgy yellow light, Cobb’s eyes are alive. “Yeah,” he says, thoughtfully. “What else is there?”

Din looks at him, and finds himself again with that feeling of being looked at in return. As if Cobb knows where his eyes are; his mouth, his nose. The feeling sends a warm prickle rolling over Din’s body; like the sonic waves of the shower turned up to eleven. It makes him overaware of his lips, of his throat, his fingers, toes, stomach. 

As evenly as possible, he says, “If I knew your asking me here was a proposition, I may have had a different answer.” 

Cobb grins. “May?”

“Yes,” Din says, and closes his eyes beneath his helmet. Only for a second, just long enough to disconnect from Cobb’s handsome, sunbeaten face for some sense to creep into his brain. _You are a Mandalorian,_ he tells himself, firmly. _You killed a krayt dragon today. You can stand up to this._

But then Cobb eases the beskar from Din’s arms, and Din lets him. Touches his wrist, where the glove has ridden up. Tests his thumbnail to Din’s pulse, something bright and wicked in his eyes, as if he knows that behind the helmet, Din is biting his cheek to keep himself in check. He’s never met somebody who seems to be able to see beyond the helmet; there have been many who have tried, or have thought they could. Cobb is the first person who Din feels seen by. When he holds the man’s eye, he feels Cobb holding his gaze right back. 

“Guess we’ll just have to see,” Cobb murmurs, his voice like rough silk in the dark room. Outside, the winds continue to rage. What is more appealing than a small room, and a warm light, when the elements outside are so dreadful? Din feels as though his bruises have bruises. He feels as though he’s been tossed around so much lately that he’s become more sack of flesh than man. 

Under his armour, he’s human. That’s the most difficult thing about it. 

When Cobb presses a long-fingered hand to the centre of Din’s chest, he lets him. When he pushes, just the slightest bit of pressure, Din bends to it. Steps back, and then back again, the light passing over his helmet, and then over Cobb’s face, until they’re both cloaked in grainy midnight shadow. _Can you feel my heart?_ Din thinks, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on Cobb’s face. He hasn’t been touched without his armour on for a very long time. And it’s strange, quite vulnerable; no barrier between him and the world any longer. Can you feel it? he thinks, again, and watches Cobb’s eyelids dip, as if he’d heard Din speak out loud.

The couch hits the back of his knees, and in a very un-Mandalorian-like manner, Din crumples. As if Cobb’s hand at his chest was dark matter; something so preternaturally heavy there’s no way he could ever stand up to it. Even Cobb gets drawn down by it, the two of them collapsing together into the furniture, into each other. The hard, lean line of Cobb’s body; his slim hips, the strong sinew of his arms. Din grips at every wiry inch of him, Cobb’s forehead pressed to the dome of Din’s helmet, his breath fogging the visor with every exhale.

“When I saw you in the saloon —” Cobb cuts himself short, as Din begins to work his own gloves off. One finger at a time, his movements clumsy in his haste. It’s been so long since he’s done this; he wants at least to be able to feel the man’s skin under his hands. Cobb leans back to watch, as if it’s the most sensual show in the galaxy. The light hitting his teeth, the whites of his eyes, making his grey hair shine. “Shit. Seein’ any inch of you…”

“You won’t get much more than this,” Din mutters, throwing the gloves aside before gripping hard at Cobb’s hip, fisting his hand in the back of the man’s shirt. Cobb laughs and grabs at the front of Din’s clothes. 

“Oh no?” He presses his forehead to the helmet again. Din’s whole world becomes Cobb’s piercing hazel eyes. “Guess you take the whole helmet thing seriously, huh?” 

Din grips harder at him when Cobb’s fingers push under his cowl, fingertips to the hot skin of his neck. “I do,” he says, trying to sound as firm as possible with Cobb’s fingernails tracing over his nape.

“How long?” Cobb breathes. “How long since someone’s seen you?” 

The room is full of their heavy breathing, of the shift of fabric on fabric as Cobb shifts idly in Din’s lap. He can feel the man’s belt buckle, pressing hard into Din’s stomach. And below that, something else that is just as hard. 

And Din thinks; _I can’t do this._

“I don’t —” he shifts, tugs his cowl straight. With some difficulty, he says, “I’m sorry, Cobb. I shouldn’t do this. Casual sex is against our Creed.”

In his lap, Cobb stills. As though someone has powered him down. Then he draws back from Din’s face, his eyes flicking over the helmet as if he’d be able to detect any expression there. “You’re joking.”

Wryly, Din replies, “I’m unfortunately not.”

“Shit,” Cobb says, and flops unceremoniously from Din’s lap, eyes cast up to the ceiling as if in some silent plea. His fist clenches on his thigh, just once. “They don’t want you havin’ any fun, huh?”

“I don’t suppose so.”

They sit next to each other in silence, for a time. Their breaths slowing. Din watches the child’s closed-over pram bob peacefully in thin air, timing his breathing to its movement. He’d let his tiredness get the better of him. Let Cobb’s easy charm overwhelm him. 

Then, Cobb’s hand finds his; still bare, still vulnerable. Din jerks at the touch, but doesn’t pull away, dropping his gaze to their hands as Cobb runs his thumb over the lines in Din’s palm. “So,” he says, lowly, tracing down over the knot of veins in Din’s wrist, flirting with the cuff of his undershirt. “I guess we’ll have to get creative.”

Din stares at him, something heated beginning to unfurl in his stomach once more as Cobb smiles; eyes heavy-lidded and calculating. “Creative?” he asks. 

Cobb inclines his head. “Maybe I’ve got an idea. It’ll save that precious Creed of yours, but still give us both a little of what we need.”

Silence. The wind whipping the sands against the sides of the house. Carefully, Din asks, “What is it that you think I need?”

Cobb’s hand is very warm over his own. It makes Din think of the warmth of his hip, when Din had touched him; had pulled up his shirt to get skin on skin. And then, his belly, his chest, the inside of his elbow, his thigh — 

He wants. He’s just not sure if he needs. 

“C’mon,” Cobb says, and stands; holds a hand out for Din to take. “Follow me. Leave the baby to sleep in here.”

To his credit, Din does hesitate. Takes stock of the situation; his missing armour, his missing gloves. The vague and burning memory of Cobb’s fingernails against his throat. The man’s belt buckle digging hard into his stomach. The human body is so vulnerable. Din feels distinctly like a turned-over varatycl; his soft underbelly exposed to — what, exactly? Just Cobb’s warm eyes. His sure, capable hands. 

So, he takes it. The hand. Follows Cobb’s broad-shouldered silhouette through the dim, narrow hallway to the back of the house. Breath caught hard in his lungs, pulse beating hard in his stomach; caught somewhere between arousal and trepidation. Part of him wants to catch hold of Cobb, right here in the hall with true darkness to obscure him, because obviously his helmet is not enough. To catch his arm, and admit, _it’s been a very long time._ Somehow he knows the man wouldn’t laugh. 

But they’re not having sex. They’re getting ‘creative’. Maybe Din’s decade-long dry spell won’t matter, in that case. 

Cobb’s bedroom is pitch black, though he crosses it quickly and surely, leaving Din to linger in the doorway. Flicking on his night vision, Din sees furniture; a large, round window; Cobb himself, leaning across —

A lamp comes on. Din grunts as his night vision display whites out, and turns it off as Cobb huffs. 

“Did I get you?” he asks, and Din’s silence must answer for him, because he smiles, and says, “I’m sorry.” 

The lamp sits on the bedside, a deep, yellow glow coming from it just like the one in the main room of the house. Cobb is lit by it in broad, glowing brushstrokes; one side of him illuminated, the other cast into indistinct darkness. Din takes him in, takes the room in; sparsely furnished, little more than a huge, unmade bed and a dresser, some personal effects strewn around. He can imagine what those rumpled sheets smell like. Some distant part of him wishes he could press his face into them, and not have to rely on memory and imagination alone. 

His bare hands flex by his sides. For the first time in a while, Din feels distinctly unsure of what his next move should be. 

Cobb crosses the room, making the decision for the both of them. His long shadow thrown over the walls; reaching for Din, reaching for Din’s own stiff, unsure shadow. Haloed by the light, Cobb’s expression is hidden. So Din reaches up; touches his mouth, his nose, his cheekbones. Under his fingertips, he feels Cobb smile.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, softly.

“The helmet —”

Cobb interrupts him, gently. “Stays on, I know.”

In the close, hushed silence of the room, Din swears he can hear his own heart beating. Not the sound of his pulse, thrumming in his ears. No, this is different. He wonders if Cobb can hear it too, and then, hot on that thought’s heels; does he want Cobb to be able to hear it? But then Cobb’s fingers steeple on the beskar, and he presses a kiss to each swooping cheek of it, and Din’s racing thoughts flatten to a dull hum. 

Behind the visor, he allows his eyes to close. His mouth to drop open. He knows, logically, that he can’t feel the touch, but then why does he ache so completely? His heart, his stomach, his dick. Nobody has ever touched him so familiarly. No one has ever kissed his helm before. 

“I don’t even know what you look like,” Cobb breathes, wonderingly. “You could pass me in the street with this thing off, and I wouldn’t know you.” His fingers slip down the smooth sides of the helmet, and toy with the underside; pushing up until Din feels fingertips on his jaw.

Warningly, he brings his hands up to grip hold of Cobb’s wrists. “I think you’d know me,” he says, evenly.

Cobb’s eyes are fond when he draws back. “I think I would too.”

He tugs at the kerchief around his neck, loosening it, letting it drop to the floor; his shirt follows a second later. Din watches, silently. The play of muscles in the man’s arms, and his torso. His nipples, the hair on his chest and his stomach, under his arms. Din is helpless to the urge to step closer, to set his bare hands to Cobb’s bare skin, and feel that muscle with his own fingers. Spreading his palms over the man’s ribcage, feeling it swell as Cobb draws a deep breath in.

“Are you gonna undress?” Cobb asks.

Din says, “I shouldn’t.”

But the gloves are off. That’s a saying, isn’t it? No holds barred; what’s to come will come. Something like that. So he works the cowl around his throat off, and Cobb helps him ease the close fitting shirt he wears under his armour over his head, and then they’re both as nude as each other; though only one of them has eyes to catch the light. 

Cobb blinks. Drops his gaze, runs his thumbs over Din’s chest, over his nipples, and laughs quietly in the back of his throat at the shiver the touch causes. “Shit,” he murmurs, reverently. “Can I kiss you here?”

“I’m not sure.”

They hesitate, both of them stood half-bare and half-hard, half-lit by the glow of the bedside lamp. The soft susurration of the sand hitting the thick glass window; so much like rain. Din’s head feels fogged, as if he’s just had his head rang off a concrete floor. Just as bleary, just as stumbling; when he reaches for Cobb’s face the movement is clumsy, unrefined. Come straight from his heart rather than the head tucked away under two thick inches of beskar. Cobb moves easily with him. Din’s thumb to his mole, to the corner of his mouth, as he allows his face to be guided down, and down, and —

The test of teeth against his nipple. Din can’t hold back the gasp it lets fly from his throat, no, somewhere deeper — right from his belly, right from his core, fingers locked in Cobb’s sleek, short hair as the other man bites and kisses his way across Din’s chest. 

_He must be able to feel it,_ Din thinks, wildly. _My heart — he must._

Somehow he feels as though he’s had a few neat shots of that glowing blue liquor alongside Cobb. His head, swimming. His stomach, full of heat and electricity. Cobb’s fingers are at his belt, at his fly, and Din has just enough good sense left to step back, out of his grasp.

They stare at each other, breathing heavily. Cobb’s pupils are huge and black in the dim room; his mouth wet. Din can’t help the surge of arousal that goes through him, all he can do is let himself be picked up and carried by it; his fist closing around the hard shape of himself in his pants, as he watches Cobb’s wicked smile return. 

“You read minds too?” he asks, his voice low and rough. Din tilts his head, silently, the heave of his chest giving away his show at composure. Cobb adds, “Gettin’ creative. I want you to jerk your dick next to me.”

Oh. If the lamp being thrown on had whited out Din’s night vision; Cobb’s words do something very similar to his train of thought. It derails completely; no survivors; a twisted wreck. Din is left to blink at him, wordlessly, dick jumping under his palm. 

Cobb asks, “You like the thought of that, huh? Is it a good enough workaround?”

“Pretty good,” Din croaks, and lets Cobb tug him over to the bed, and push him down into the sheets. 

It always feels good to find a partner who is a good match, both inside and outside of the bedroom. Din’s ten year dry spell is not from lack of prospects, after all; but rather his own rigid pickiness. By Mandalorian Creed, he shouldn’t even be engaging with this outside of marriage, or a meaningful relationship, but — well. He’s only human. Regrettably, fleshily, hormonally human. And besides, given more time, and less responsibility, maybe Cobb could have become something meaningful. That has to count for something, right?

Cobb gathers him against the headboard; cool stone against Din’s bare, overheated back. He almost flinches, but Cobb’s hand is smoothing over his side, coming to rest at the juncture between neck and shoulder. Din feels like a raw nerve, from being touched so much; like a live wire broken free from its casing. It’s what’s keeping him so hard, despite his dick being so ignored. Human touch is really something, when you spend so long locked away from it.

“You’re shivering,” Cobb says, gently, running his big hand over Din’s chest, over his belly. “Are you cold?” 

“No,” Din says, carefully. And then, because there’s no use in lying, because Cobb will find out when Din comes over his own fist in a matter of minutes, he adds, “I haven’t had much time for this sort of thing.” 

Cobb gives him a sidelong, curious look, hands stilled in the short work he’s now making of his own belt and fly. “You don’t even — ?” He makes a lewd gesture. 

“No,” Din says. And then, he amends, “Rarely.”

“Shit,” Cobb says, and then lifts his hips off the bed, pulling his pants down and kicking them off. “I’d go crazy. Nothin’ else to do out here but jerk off, sometimes.” The motion leaves him nude; Din can’t help but stare. The dark hair between his legs, his thick, uncut dick. Idly, Cobb’s hand goes to it; shameless, with no hesitation. Din swallows. 

“Never have the time,” he says, roughly, watching Cobb circle the base of his dick, the light catching on the wetness at the head of it. “Or the privacy.”

Cobb huffs, chin dropping to his chest as he tugs at his dick, lazily. “You got all the time now,” he murmurs, some unspoken urging in his voice that has Din fumbling at the buttons of his pants. “Go on,” Cobb adds, as he watches Din undress. “Lemme see it.”

His long, brown legs are sprawled out across the bed, hips tipped up just slightly as he works his hand over the head of his dick. The light spilling over him, soft as a kiss, soft as the hand he lays on Din’s clothed thigh. He squeezes, just once. The muscles in his stomach tensing as Din pulls himself out of his pants, and then Cobb starts to jerk his dick in earnest.

“I knew you were packin’ somethin’ nice,” Cobb murmurs, letting his head drop back against the wall behind them. When Din glances at him, it’s to find the man’s eyes locked unerringly on Din’s dick; already wet and leaking in his hand. “You can always tell,” he continues, “’S all in the way a man walks.” His breath catches in his throat, halfway between a laugh and a moan, and his free hand tightens on Din’s thigh. 

Din doesn’t reply. He doesn’t trust himself to. It’s one step too far into vulnerability; he’s already half-nude, unarmed, unarmored, enamoured. To have Cobb hear him moan, or to hear his voice wobble or break…Din’s never known what to do with his own desires. After enough time, they fade to an easily ignorable background hum. He can’t help but think that after this, they won’t be so easy to overlook. 

Cobb’s kiss to his helmet has undone him. Even at the memory of it, Din feels his dick twitch in his hand, finds himself suddenly unable to hold back on the shuddery noise that comes up out of him. Cobb grins when he hears it, crowds so close that Din knows he should be able to smell him. That leathersoapsweat smell. Cobb’s nose pressed to the side of his helm as though it’s skin; soft temple; sensitive behind-the-ear. And Din moans again, helpless, imaging how it would feel to have Cobb’s teeth at his throat. His voice, his mouth, right there at the shell of Din’s ear, whispering wicked things into. Sweat is beginning to spring up on his throat, his chest; less from the warmth of the room, and more to do with Din’s suddenly uncontrollable arousal. 

When he’d first stepped into the dark hallway running between bedroom and main room, Din had been sure of his upper hand. Been sure of his own control. Now, the only thing keeping him from rolling over and pushing his ass up to meet Cobb’s dick is the knowledge that the man would probably refuse him. He feels overcome. Completely and wholly unmade. 

“Wanted you the minute I saw you,” Cobb says, something distinctly wolfish in his tone. Their legs are now tangled; Cobb’s foot pressed to Din’s calf, his knee knocking into Din’s own. Their hands and arms moving in desperate tandem, as they bring themselves off under the other’s gaze. “Did you see me and think about doin’ this?”

“Not quite this,” Din allows, his voice coming out thick, and rough; alien to him. Like he’s crossed the whole breadth of Tatooine without a single sip of water. Like he’s dying of a thirst easily quenched. He grips at his balls, slowing his strokes, eyes dropping closed behind his helmet. “I thought — I thought we worked well together.” He’s toeing the edge of orgasm already. If he’d known he’d soon find himself in this position, Din thinks he wouldn’t have ignored his past morning arousals so often. 

Cobb huffs. When Din opens his eyes its to the find the man’s face close, the light hitting his eyes and turning them yellow. Hungry, soft and melting. “That’s hot for a Mandalorian, huh? I’ve heard you guys are into your one-on-ones.” A beat, and then Cobb’s smile turns wicked. “Is that why you challenged me?”

“No,” Din bites out, jerking as Cobb runs his free hand over Din’s belly, nails digging into skin that hasn’t felt another’s touch in a decade. Scratching through the hair there, the back of his hand bumping against the head of Din’s dick, making his next words come out tight and rushed. “That was because I was angry.”

“Figures,” Cobb says, leaning back once more to watch. Somehow, the space between them makes Din feel hotter than when they were pressed shoulder to hip. The complete lack of intimacy in masturbating in front of another, as if Cobb could be anybody, paired with the overwhelming closeness he feels; looked-at and looked-through, as easily as if his helmet was made from glass. Din feels insensate with want; made worse when Cobb starts talking again, his low voice drawling and unhurried. “I wanted you the moment I saw you standin’ there,” he breathes. “Thought about you like this; let loose for me. Does it feel good, Mando? Do you like me watching you?”

“Yes,” Din manages, face burning under his helmet, caught in some glorious space between embarrassment and arousal, dick dripping wet in his fist as he tugs at himself. Cobb’s own hand is moving quick; Din watches the muscles in his forearm, in his thighs, all clutching and moving and bringing him towards that final moment of pleasure. _Do you like it?_ Din thinks, desperately. _Does your dick feel good? Are you thinking of me like I’m thinking of you?_ He supposes he doesn’t really need to ask. The answers are plain to see; the soft, sensual curve of Cobb’s mouth as he opens it on a soundless moan, brows arching down in an expression of near-pained pleasure. Eyelids fluttering, as though he aches to close them but aches even worse to miss even a second of Din’s hand moving over his dick.

And all Din can think of is that dick. Just the right side of too-big to really make it a task for him. He’s always liked to be challenged. He imagines it filling him up, choking in his throat, Cobb’s hands on the backs of his thighs as he spreads him open and fills Din to breaking —

Din curses, as he spills over his fist, pressing the crown of his helm into the wall behind him. Gasping, moaning, heaving for air, toes curling as he works his dick long past the point of real pure pleasure. And then he’s finding his head being turned by some unknown force; one that resolves itself as Cobb’s hand as soon as Din manages to unscrew his eyes, hand going to clutch hard at his balls as Cobb’s forehead meets the brow of the helm, and he too begins to come hard into his own hand. 

“Cobb,” Din pants, and, “fuck,” as he watches Cobb’s expression twist.

Cobb’s orgasm is soundless, compared to Din’s frankly embarrassing moaning. Teeth sunk into his lower lip, breath fogging Din’s visor, breath catching hard in his throat as he jerks at his dick one last time, and goes limp. 

In the wake of their pleasure, the whole desert seems to ring with silence. 

Cobb breaks it, of course. An astute, breathless, “Well, fuck,” that Din can only make a low noise of agreement towards. He feels boneless; well and truly sated for the first time in as long as he can remember. Like he could fall asleep then and there, and not wake for days. 

His hand is still gripped around himself; wet dick softening in the crease where thigh meets hip. He groans, trailing his hand up through the hair on his stomach. “I need another shower,” he croaks, and Cobb laughs at him.

“You’ll live.” He sounds as satisfied as Din feels. When Din shifts to look at him, Cobb looks half a step away from melting clean through to the floor. Eyes half-lidded and curved, like a happy loth-cat; sweat shining on his chest, and in the hollow of his throat. All made up in lights and shadows, his big hand still circled loosely around himself, tugging lazily as if to chase what pleasure is left. Something about the sight makes Din’s chest squeeze; makes his dick jerk, half-heartedly.

He reaches out, and lays his hand on the man’s neck. Feels the rabbity thrum of Cobb’s pulse. Then, lower; the quick beat of his heart. As if realising what Din is doing, Cobb grins, and shifts, throwing both arms over his head to stretch with a groan. His ribcage strains against his skin, all his long muscles held taut for a moment, before releasing. Cobb relaxes back into bed, somehow more languid than before. 

“Y’know,” he says, dreamily. “I think that was better than if I’d just fucked you.”

Din huffs. “I think so too.”

“Funny, that.” Cobb’s eyes trace over the ceiling, shot through with the light from the bedside. “Guess it’s all about what you can’t have.”

“And there’s little to have,” Din murmurs, as he shifts, makes himself more comfortable. “With me, I mean.” The drying mess on his belly is disgusting, but there’s little to do about it; he feels as though he’d keel over if he stood to go clean himself. So instead he shifts onto his side, and turns his face to try to gauge Cobb’s reaction to that. 

“Plenty for me,” Cobb says, and his eyes are bright and warm as he too turns onto his side, reaching out a hand to trace his thumb over Din’s helmet. Din closes his eyes at the touch, and sighs. Imagines how it might feel on his face; in his hair. Cobb’s voice is low, and gentle when he speaks again. Asking, “Would you take it off, if you could?” 

_Even with it off, the Creed remains,_ Din thinks. As if having his face bared is enough to free him from his duty. Out loud, he says, “No.” And at Cobb’s noise of curiosity, adds, “Aside from it being part of the Creed, it’s comforting. It keeps me safe.”

It’s true. The helmet removes some of the immediacy of life. Over the years, it’s become to Din what a tatty old blanket can become to a small child. A comfort, a means to self-soothe, to tuck himself away and remove himself from the exhaustion that can come from being looked at. Nobody perceives him, now. They see his armour, and never care to delve deeper. It means that Din never needs to worry about being known, being misconstrued — Din Djarin is kept safe beneath a few solid inches of beskar, and nobody can touch him unless the Mandalorian says so. 

Cobb’s eyes trace over the helmet. Over Din’s face. Curious, probing, thoughtful. Din wonders if that’s what Cobb liked so much about his stolen armour; the freedom to be nothing more than it. People rarely care about the body under the beskar. Though, Din supposes Cobb never wore it like he himself does. There’s no way to explain it, unless someone has been faceless for longer than they’ve had a face. 

“Maybe after all this, you could take it off,” Cobb murmurs, his hand splayed flat over the helm’s curved cheek. “Go somewhere, melt into the crowd; live a normal, boring old human life.” 

_Somewhere,_ Din thinks. _Here?_ It seems all it takes to make Cobb an easy read is an orgasm. The open want is shining out of him, brighter than the lamp turning his tousled hair into a silvery halo. 

“There is no ‘all this’,” Din says, turning over onto his back, dislodging Cobb’s touch. “There is no after. If I’m lucky, I’ll die and be buried in his helmet.”

The wind has dropped outside. The silence that Din’s words drop into is complete; the silence of of miles and miles of untouched desert, reflecting the moon back into the night sky. 

“Well,” Cobb says, eventually. “By all accounts, it does suit you.” And he laughs. Behind his helmet, Din rolls his eyes, glad that Cobb can’t see the smile tugging at his mouth. 

“Thank you. It was made to fit me, unlike your —”

“Shit,” Cobb interrupts, propping himself up on an elbow to grin down at Din. “Two minutes after coming in your own hand, and you’re back on the beskar?” 

“Obviously,” Din says. And then, “You did promise.”

Cobb flops back onto the mattress, throwing out a hand to hit the light as he mumbles, “Yeah, yeah, I did.” The room falls into darkness; only the circle of moonlit desert through the window to see by. Din turns his eyes to Cobb’s profile, handsome in the cold glow, to the rise and fall of his bare chest. Something unbelievably tender is trying to climb up from inside his chest; slick and throbbing and forcing at the back of his throat. 

Din swallows. It retreats, just far enough for him to croak, “Can you hold me?” 

It’s the sort of thing one can only say in darkness. The kind of thing that makes the vague shine of moonlight in the room seem like a searchlight, for how it just so slightly illuminates the shift of Cobb’s expression. Eyes so soft they’re melting in his face. Din doesn’t know who reaches for who first, but then his face is against Cobb’s chest, and Cobb is huffing, murmuring, _so cold!_ as he folds his hand over the back of Din’s helmet. Holding him in place, holding him to his body; their legs crossed and tangled over each other. Then Cobb reaches for the sheet, balled at the end of the bed, and in the safety of his helmet Din allows his eyes to close. Lets his body relax against the warm, lean line of Cobb’s body.

“Is this the right time for me to try and convince you to stay longer?” Cobb murmurs, his voice low and reverberating in his chest, under Din’s ear.

“No,” Din says. And so they leave it at that.

———

In the morning, Cobb cooks for himself and the child, talking loudly at it as Din showers the night from himself in the next room. Stuff like, _don’t climb in there!_ and _how d’you like your eggs, little guy?_ It makes Din smile, scrubbing at his face with the smell of Cobb once again invaded into his brain. 

It’s quite the domestic picture. So much so that for the first time, Din realises he doesn’t regret his snap judgment of entrusting the child to Cobb, when he was uncertain whether he’d ever emerge from the dragon’s belly. Fatherhood is all about muddling along. He knows that better than anybody, and it seems Cobb has made a life of it. There are far worse people out there, to leave the little one with.

Din dresses, and then lingers in the bedroom, eyes on the bed as all the emotions from the previous night resurface. Cobb’s lips on his helmet. The way he had touched him, turned his face, when Din had spilled all over his belly and hand. There’s an element of untouchability that comes with being a Mandalorian. Din has never been touched so much, and so freely, with so little abandon, as he had last night. The thought sends a jolt of arousal through him; short-lived but fierce. 

If Cobb asks him to stay when he emerges into the main room of the house, Din thinks he’ll have a very hard time saying no to the man again. He just isn’t sure whether he hopes Cobb does, or not.

The day is bright and sunny; light flowing in through the large, round windows that had been so black the previous night, to spill across the floor. The child sits on the table with its breakfast, burbling happily to itself, but shrieks and lifts yolk-messy hands towards Din when he steps into the room. He grins, and huffs; reaches for it.

“Did you miss me?” he asks, gently. The child shifts restlessly, grabbing at his cowl and pressing yolky hands to his breastplate. Din ignores it. “Were you good?” he asks. 

“As gold,” comes Cobb’s voice, from the doorway. When Din glances up, he’s slouched against the doorframe, sun behind his head, the picture of louche dishevelment. Half-dressed, hair a mess, eyes picking Din apart in that way he’s coming to expect. “Nice shower?” he asks, eyes crinkling with his smile. “You slept well.”

Din hefts the child in his arms, tilting his face away as it tries to land its dirty hands on his helm. “Better than I have in a while,” he admits, and Cobb’s smile turns warm.

“Join me outside before you jet off,” he says, stepping back from the doorway, letting the light stream back in. “Or help yourself to food,” he calls, as an afterthought.

Din glances at the messy stove, at the dishes in the sink. He joins Cobb outside. 

The dry, hot air hits like a wall, even with all of Din’s protection from it. Somehow, it seems worse than even in Mos Eisley. Arid, sweltering; sending him stepping quickly into the shade of the awning that juts from the side of Cobb’s home, under which he sits, smoking a long thin cigarette. 

“Body gets used to it,” he says, smoke streaming from his nose. At Din’s inquisitive tilt of his head, Cobb adds, “The heat.” He gestures vaguely with both hands, cigarette shedding ash. “You regulate.”

He looks comfortable in the shade; sprawled out in a low canvas chair, his long legs sticking out into the sun. Bare toes, flexing. Eyes and face squinted up against the light, as he regards Din with something unreadable in his face. 

Din speaks before he can. Heading off the question he can see brewing; the question he’s not so sure he can answer in the negative. “Thank for you letting us stay last night,” he says. Cobb’s mouth stretches into a smile, brows raising up. “And thank you for —” Din hesitates, and then relents to his better judgement. “Thank you.”

He trusts Cobb to understand what exactly Din is thanking him for. After so long without the touch of another, it begins to feel impossible that you’ll ever have it again. Now, Din finds he feels a little more human, armed with the knowledge that at least one man has been able to see beyond the helmet. 

Cobb’s smile is a slow spread. “Any time,” he murmurs, and takes a drag from his cigarette. “I s’pose you’re in a hurry to be off.” 

Din nods. “I am.” The child wriggles in his arms, babbling, a constant reminder. “I’ll take that armour now, if you’d be so kind.” 

Cobb snorts, drawing himself up from the low chair with a huff, cigarette smoke trailing behind him as he ducks into the house. Doggedly, Din follows him; not quite trusting anybody when it comes to beskar. 

“Knew you wouldn’t let me forget ‘bout that,” Cobb throws over his shoulder, words muffled from the cigarette he sticks in his mouth to free up his hands. With a groan, he heaves the armour up from where he had left it the previous day, and sets about finding something to lash it all together with. Din watches on, closely.

“I slayed the dragon,” he says, evenly. Then, for all the teasing Cobb has treated him to, Din adds, “Can’t trust a thief to follow through on a promise.”

Cobb throws him a long-suffering glance, as if he doesn’t know Din is smiling behind his helm. “C’mon, don’t be so angry at me for it. Wearing the armour was a means to an end.” He huffs, bending low over the bundle as he pulls the knots taut. The tendons in his wrists and hands bunching with the effort. “It brought them and me a chance at freedom.”

“I suppose you would do worse, for them,” Din replies. 

Cobb makes a noise, shaking his head as he stands, the bundle swinging from his fist. “You’re damn right,” he says, eyes flicking over Din’s helmet; alert and serious. “There’s a strength, in becoming what your people need. You’d understand that more than anyone, Mando.”

Din inclines his head. “I would.”

There’s a beat of silence, in which Cobb stands there and regards Din, who stays still and lets himself be regarded. _This is how it feels,_ he tells himself. _Remember it_. The sun at his back throws his shadow over Cobb’s face; makes him some indisputable part of Din for just a brief moment. 

Then Cobb asks, “But what do _you_ need?” His voice low, and steady. The question woven into it almost impossible to ignore. 

Din closes his eyes. Another night becomes another week, becomes another month; and then one is lost to complacency. The child is a warm, heavy weight in his arms; a permanent reminder of who that complacency would impact the most. There’s time for selfishness, and this is not it. “I need to find the little one’s people,” he says, firmly. “Nothing more.”

 _Everything else is want,_ he thinks. _And I am a man who can ignore a want until it eats me._

Cobb eyes him a second longer, and then nods. Extends his hand, the armour swinging in its bundle. “Go on then,” he murmurs, and Din shifts the child to its pram, and gathers the armour to his chest. “I’ll walk you into town.”

Din lingers in the doorway while Cobb hunts down a pair of boots, and several layers to keep the sun from his skin. When he emerges, he looks different; skinnier, taller. It takes Din a second to realise all that’s missing is the ill-fitting Mandalorian armour; made for a man far broader and shorter than Cobb himself is. 

As if sensing Din’s realisation, Cobb scratches at the back of his neck, knocking his shoulder into Din’s as he sidles past him to head outside. “I know, I know,” he mutters. “Not a word.” And Din, pleased at being understood in such a way, follows, a smile playing around his mouth. Behind them both, the pram bobs. 

The walk back into Mos Pelgo seems faster in the daylight. Or perhaps it’s because Din knows now the distance between it and Cobb’s little home on the outskirts. Or maybe it’s because he wishes it would drag, and time always has a funny way of working against you like that. 

Once, he glances at Cobb, to find him looking right back. Stroking a hand over his beard, looking thoughtful. Din finds he wants to press his thumb to the mole under his eye, to the red scar running from his temple into his grey hair, just to feel it once more before they part. But he doesn’t. Instead he just walks alongside the man, keeping pace, matching his slow, easy amble. As if he’s got nowhere to be and all the time in the galaxy to get there. Cigarette hanging from his lips, wrapped up to his chin in fabric; somehow a stranger and something far more intimate all at once.

If Din unfocused his eyes, Cobb would blend right into the background; would become one with the desert. Din supposes that’s his whole thing. Smudgy, elusive, hard to grasp hold of to bring into the light and see for what he is. Marshal, or Mandalorian? Friend, or foe, or some other third thing that Din doesn’t have time to explore? He could spend the rest of his life trying to figure it out, but now Mos Pelgo is doing its own slow version of bustling around them both, and Din’s speeder is exactly where he left it, and Cobb is helping him strap the armour down with those broad, capable suntanned hands —

“You don’t gotta leave so soon,” he says, quietly, eyes turned down on where their hands meet over the knots in the rope. Bare skin, and supple leather; covered and uncovered. “We fought well together out there; a marshal always needs a deputy, Mando.”

Din stares at him, frozen in his task. At the top of Cobb’s head; the starburst of white scalp at the crown, the dark grey hair still tousled from their night together. A thousand replies are bubbling up, each ranging from the practical to the absolutely insane, roiling in his throat until all that comes out is, “It’s Din.”

Cobb’s face turns up; eyes swallowing the sun, and finding Din’s own eyes easily despite it. “Huh?”

Looked at, looked through, Din says, as clearly as he can, “My name. It’s Din. And I’m no deputy, Marshal.”

“Well,” Cobb smiles, and straightens up. Din thinks of the man’s thumb at his pulse. The smell of him. The unbearable knowledge of being seen without having to undermine his Creed. Always a pipe dream; now come true in the shape of a long-legged Marshal who he can’t help but leave behind. “Until next time, Din.”

The last person to say his name out loud had been Moff Gideon. Before that; who knows. His parents? There’s only a handful of people in the galaxy who know it. Din thinks it sounds a lot better, coming from Cobb’s mouth. 

“Until next time,” Din says. And thinks, quietly, _may that come sooner than we both expect._

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! i don't Go Here (star war) so if there was any errors yes there were no they didn't <3
> 
> lemme know what u thought! :^) you can find me @getmean on tumblr!


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